The world of Simon Stålenhag has an ominous quality to it. The deep thrum of the unknown, the ooze of mild dread, and the existential gravitas of it’s objects — its culmination is not only an art project. It is also a place where I go to. When the terror of a blank future fills my neighbourhood like a smog, when crippling loneliness spreads it’s roots throbbing under the ground, when it’s all dark and  foreboding, I sit at the edge of the Loop and listen to the machines.